


En Pointe

by draculasdaughter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Dancer Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Drarry, Fluff and Angst, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gonna Be Fluffy too, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, It's not sexy yet but it's coming, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, They both go to therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-07-27 12:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16218989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculasdaughter/pseuds/draculasdaughter
Summary: Harry Potter has helped restore peace to the entire wizarding community-- except himself. At the Auror Academy, it becomes apparent that Harry's trauma and PTSD is affecting his ability to control his magic. He leaves the Academy and begins therapy. On the other side of a post-war world--but very much in the same situation--is Draco Malfoy. He attempts to deal with his trauma through ballet, but when he becomes friends with Harry Potter it becomes obvious that the best way to heal is alongside someone else.





	1. Le Spectre de la Rose

Almost immediately after agreeing to attend the Royal Ballet, Harry regretted it. He had very little patience for music without words and had no cultural knowledge regarding dance, so he was worried about the impression his idiocy would make on his date. At least he wouldn't be wearing dress robes. They’d be muggles for the evening.

His date, a Ministry alchemist named Aberdeen Hensburg, had season tickets for the Royal Ballet Company and had thought that Harry “must see Ian dance,” whatever the fuck that means. He needed to stop asking Hermione for date suggestions.

With a sigh, he forced himself to step out of the shower and into the chilly abyss. Kreacher had set something, “for a real gentlemen” on the bed. He ignored the emerald robes and changed into a casual gray suit.

When he knocked on the door of the extravagantly-sized house, he was greeted with the wide and ultra-white smile of a handsome brunette man. “Mr. Potter! It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Harry extended a hand, but was instead pulled into an awkward hug that lasted a few seconds too long. Finally, the brunette let him go.

“Nice to meet you too. Please, call me Harry,” he offered with a smile.

The man blushed, tinting his freckled cheeks pink. He nodded enthusiastically. “Okay… Harry.”

Aberdeen was less enthusiastic about the Underground. He turned a bit green when the tube system was mentioned, so they took a cab, which Harry generally found unnecessary and rather boring. One didn’t see mariachi bands or people in full-body gorilla suits in a cab.

They had seats in the front row of the balcony. Harry sat on the end by the aisle. Aberdeen made excited small talk as the theatre filled with spectators. The aforementioned Ian would be dancing in Le Spectre De La Rose, which, as Google had explained, was about a dancing rose as represented in a young girl’s dream. He’d decided not to think too deeply about it.

There were a few other pieces mentioned in the program-- none of which Harry knew anything about. He felt out of place within this crowd. The people around him seemed comfortable here, with giant rings littering their fingers and tailored silk trousers. His eyes settled on the man across the row. He was turned away, talking to someone beside him. His hair was nearly white. His long legs were crossed elegantly and his long pale fingers were placed artistically on his knee.

The lights began to dim and Aberdeen gripped Harry’s arm excitedly-- not the first time he’d touched Harry tonight without any indication that Harry was interested.

The curtain opened on a young girl with a rose in her hands. She fell asleep-- Harry would have too with such boring music-- and the rose fell out of her hands. Then, a tall man with an incredibly tight pink bodysuit showed up in the window and started leaping across the stage.

Aberdeen was clearly in love with Ian. He was enchanted. His hand went to his heart when the man started turning with his leg in the air. Surely there was a more eloquent way to describe that particular move, but… Harry didn’t even know where to begin.

The man across the row was yawning into his hand.

 _Agreed_ , thought Harry. He turned his attention back to the stage. The woman who still ‘asleep’ began to dance with the man-rose. She lifted her leg into the air, standing on the very tip of her toe and he turned her around in a circle, balancing on that one point. It was beautiful.

There was a sharp intake of breath to his right. The man, yawning just a moment before, was biting his knuckle with stress.

They danced for ten, maybe twenty minutes, then: roaring applause.

A few other pieces followed, some with as many as eighteen dancers at one time. How did they not kick each other? How were they able to stand on their toes like that?

When the performance was finally over, Harry found that he was incredibly tense. He rolled back his shoulders, looking to his date with a hesitant smile.

Aberdeen was standing, applauding with a raving excitement. “Oh, that was wonderful! Wasn’t that great, Harry?” He sighed contentedly. “Would you mind if I-- the stage doors are close-- could I go?”

“You go catch Ian, I’ll meet you down there.”

Aberdeen, as happy as a newborn crup in a snowstorm, promptly took up his offer and began to squeeze his way through the departing audience.

Harry looked around. The man across the row looked different. Or-- perhaps this was just a different angle. His hair was even brighter than he’d remembered and his jaw could cut glass. From this angle, he sort of looked like… “Malfoy?”

The man turned around, pale eyebrows lifting. His eyes, those familiar gray eyes, narrowed. “Potter?”

It felt like it had been ages, though it had really only been a couple years. To be fair, it had been a crazy couple of years. Ginny had broken up with him. He hadn’t been surprised; it had been coming since the end of the war, which had given them time to process and really get to know themselves without impending death behind every corner. They’d both comfortably reached the conclusion that they were bisexual and needed some more time to figure out their place in the world without being tied down.

He’d defended Draco at the Death Eater trials. The Ministry had come to the same conclusion as Harry-- that Draco hadn’t had a choice. He thought he’d come to terms with the fact that the past was behind them, but the sight of Draco was still startling.

He stood. They shook hands.

“Pardon, my hands are freezing. Poor circulation,” apologized Draco curtly.

Harry shrugged. “Oh.” There was a long pause as the two stared at each other. “It’s been awhile.”

Draco... laughed. _Was that a laugh?_ “Ah, the world is safe in your hands. You can point out obvious facts.”

Harry felt the tips of his ears heat up. “Clearly you’ve become an entirely new person,” he retorted dryly.

“As have you, _clearly_. For Merlin’s sake, you’re at the ballet. The Weasley breakup hurt you that badly?”

Perhaps the comment was meant to bite, but Harry merely shrugged it off. “What did you think about the first one, with the rose?”

“Oh,” Malfoy shrugged. “I’m not a fan of Ian’s work. He almost dropped Claire tonight during an arabesque.”

Harry’s face must have betrayed his ignorance.

“When her leg is in the air and he’s supposed to be supporting her.”

“Oh, yeah.” He blushed. _He totally understood that vague description._

Malfoy gave him a tight-lipped, arrogant smile. His eyes wandered to the closed curtain. “I didn’t pin you as the ballet type anyway, Potter.”

“What do you mean, the ballet type? I was on a date.”

“Does the poor girl find your lack of knowledge admirable?” Malfoy directly his gray eyes towards Harry, sweeping over his messy black hair and glasses, which Ginny had assured him were “very much the thing.” He had the same posh, stupid smirk from school.

Harry cleared his throat. “ _He_ hasn’t seemed to figure that out yet. He’s rather blinded with love for that Ian bloke, I think. He’s with him now.”

Malfoy said nothing. He buttoned his coat, gaze returning to the orchestra seating.

And here I thought we could have a conversation, thought Harry. He stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded awkwardly, bouncing on his toes for a second. “Alright. Best find my date.” Draco probably didn’t even go on dates. Harry imagined he would probably just wake up one day in a dysfunctional marriage with a pregnant pureblood heiress. He looked at him for another long moment, then turned around.

“Potter,” called Malfoy as he was halfway up the steps, “nice seeing you.”

When Harry glanced over his shoulder, the blonde had settled his attention to the emptying seats below once more. Harry went to find his date.

 

He returned to his apartment an hour later. Ian had been found by the stage doors and had wholeheartedly engaged Aberdeen in a conversation about cheese and whatever-the-fuck cultured people talked about. So he’d left-- unconvinced that the whole thing hadn’t been a wild dream.

Grimmond place was in a bad mood when he returned. He felt it outside the door. Upon entering, he heard the sobbing cries of Walburga.

“Master has returned!” Cried Kreacher, spriting on short legs into the entryway. He looked utterly frazzled.

“OOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooh! Mr. Potter has gone to the ballet!” Screamed the portrait. He raced up the stairs, pushing the curtain aside to see the distraught woman. She never called him by his name. Tears were streaming down her canvasy cheeks. “Oh, Mr. Potter! You have gone to the ballet! Perhaps I was wrong about you!” It took a moment before he realized that she was sobbing with joy, and who would he be to discourage her remorse?

“Yeah, uh--” He cleared his throat. “I saw Le Speck-tre Duh La Rose.” Another round of tears burst forth.

Life was full of surprises.


	2. Auror Training

It’s just a simulation, Harry reminded himself, it’s not real. None of it’s real. But it felt real.

The chill of the simulation left him shivering and stiff. Rather than the ceiling of the Auror training gym, thin, dark trees towered overhead until they disappeared into a cloud of fog high above. The moonlight barely lit the uneven forest floor.

Ron, to his left, draw his wand and cast a Lumos. Harry wordlessly did the same.

He could hear the quick breath of his teammates. The team had gone still-- listening. There was a crunch of leaves in the distance and five heads snapped in its direction. There wasn’t enough light to fully see the figure about one hundred feet away.

Harry cast a disillusionment charm on everyone with a small flick of his wrist. He could hear his heartbeat deep within his chest. It was fast and stammering. His magic was swelling past his control. His thoughts were static except for the clear voice telling him to survive.

He directed a Silencio towards his feet and sprinted towards the figure. “Expelliarmus!” He whispered. Nothing came from the figure who was becoming clearer with proximity. The figure was pale and sick-looking, covered in a black cloak. His wand hand twitched.

Harry felt a burst of light and a wave of heat roll over him. Then, there was nothing but darkness.

 

“I think he’s waking up.”

Harry woke in pain. It was spread thickly across his body with a dull screaming hurt. He groaned, opening his eyes to a fluorescent room. Squinting, he looked away from the lights and to the relieved voices around his bed.

Ron, and Hermione were standing on either side of him. “Hey,” he croaked, to his own surprise, “What the hell happened?”

“Don’t move,” ordered Hermione in her ‘test me’ voice. “There are burn marks all over your body and they’re trying to heal them.”

His eyes widened at ‘burn marks.’

“Mate,” said Ron, “you started this huge fire. I’ve never seen anything like it. I-it was bloody cool, but scary as hell--.”

“Hush.” Hermione swatted him, then turned to Harry. “Do you remember any of this?”

Fire? He shook his head. “No. I remember trying to disarm him, but… that’s about it.”

“You don’t remember anything?” Hermione nodded and reached into her tiny handbag, pulling out a large legal pad and a muggle pen. “Tell me what you remember.”

Harry told her everything. She jotted notes down, nodding enthusiastically and biting her bottom lip as she sometimes used to while studying. He finished, “then it was just… nothing. That’s all I remember,” and she sighed heavily.

“Harry,” She shook her head, “That’s incredibly interesting.”

“Why? You can’t just tell me that.” He tried to push himself up to his elbows, but she gave him the look and he lay back down.

Hermione spoke carefully. “You clearly blacked out when you cast the spell. That makes enough sense, because it was incredibly powerful. You don’t remember casting it?” He shook his head. “But… why would an accidental spell be so potent?”

Ron, who had been listening on the edge of the bed, stood up. “‘Mione, let’s leave him alone.”

She agreed with a nod. “Sleep, Harry. When I have answers, I’ll let you know.” Then, they left. Hermione’s brows were furrowed in concentration as Ron led her out of the room.

For once, Hermione had left him with more questions than answers. He didn’t know what the hell had just happened, and he likely wouldn’t until she returned.

The room felt a great deal colder without them-- visually and atmospherically. The burning ache across his skin was still warm and uncomfortable. He studied his hands. They were red and blotchy with scabbing burns, which had been covered in a shiny, bluish salve. The burn went up to his elbows, a visual reminder of the bad habit he had of rolling up his sleeves. His neck felt terrible too… did that mean? He scrambled for his wand and cast a reflecting charm on a nearby glass of water.

Oh shit. His face looked awful. Why hadn’t they warned him?

Sighing, Harry forced the lights out in the hospital room and closed his eyes.


	3. Therapy Attempt #1

Harry was out of St. Mungo’s after a few days. The Auror Academy had requested that he take a week off to finish healing and “figure things out.” Hermione had requested that he meet with a wizarding therapist by the name of Colin Thorp. He wasn’t happy about either prospect, but complied with both because he couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. 

Colin’s office was across town. Harry took the tube rather than the Floo and contented himself with watching the odd people along the way. Today, on the platform of the Liverpool Street station, there was a woman in a unicorn mask wearing a suit and playing the accordion. He dropped a few muggle pounds in her accordion case with a smile. The giant unicorn mask bowed. 

Muggles were odd in a funny sort of way. They didn’t have to deal with magic. Magic, though helpful, was an unwieldy tool. 

Hermione and St. Mungos had put him on “magic rest” until further notice. “No magic. None.” One couldn’t argue with Hermione Granger, no matter how inconvenient her verdict seemed to be.

So, the Underground it was. 

He arrived at Colin’s twenty minutes late. He apologized profusely to the receptionist, who was too busy staring to fully hear him. Sure, he had some burns on his face, but with his hair pulled back the way it was, the scar was an obvious identifier. 

“Don’t worry about it,” mumbled the starstruck man, “Colin’s in the back.” He lifted a finger towards a plain-looking door, his eyes never straying from Harry’s forehead. 

“Thank you,” he looked down to the nameplate propped up on the desk, “Mathias.” 

 

Colin’s office smelled strongly of lavender. It was a little unsettling, but that didn’t matter for long after he spotted his therapist. His therapist had a thick beard and dark tattoos that snaked up his arms. 

He had imagined a thin white, balding man with a permanent frown. Instead, this man looked like an Indian lumberjack. 

Colin stood and shook Harry’s hand curtly with a warm smile. “Pleased to see you, Mr. Potter.” 

“You as well, Mr. Thorp.” 

A booming laugh burst out of the man. “Call me Colin, please. May I call you Harry?” 

“Please do.” Colin gestured to a comfortable-looking couch and Harry sat. 

“Now, Mrs. Granger-- Hermione, called me and explained the situation, but let me hear it from you.” 

Harry explained slowly, trying to recall the details. Colin was a good listener. He nodded when appropriate and jotted down a few notes. 

“I see,” Colin nodded. He set down his legal pad. “Do you have your wand on you?”

Harry scrambled for his jacket, pulling it out of a carefully disillusioned sleeve. “Hermione said not to use magic. I haven’t been, but I just carry it--”

“I’m glad you have it. Now, Harry, could you please cast a Lumos?” 

Harry nodded. He closed his eyes and breathed for a long moment. Then, opening his eyes and focusing on the tip of his wand, he murmured, “lumos.” A flicker of light left the tip of his wand-- had he blinked, he would have missed it-- and vanished like a puff of smoke. Urgently, he tried again with even weaker results. He looked to Colin with pleading eyes. “I promise, I know how to cast this--”

Colin--who seemed remarkably calm about this--nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Your magic is very powerful. I could feel it before you even entered the room, but you can’t harness it. It’s so unstable. It’s just… everywhere.” 

“Well, for fuck’s sake, what do I do?” Harry collapsed back onto the couch and tossed his wand to the floor. “This is bullshit,” he murmured, “can’t even cast a fucking lumos.” 

A warm, heavy hand rested upon his shoulder. He looked up. Colin’s eyes were kind. “Believe it or not, this is not abnormal for those who have gone through trauma, especially those with as much power as you.” He sighed. “Harry, you have to understand that for years you have held part of another wizard’s magic without any knowledge that it wasn’t yours. Your body-- your energy needs to adapt to the loss of that power. We’ll fix this.” 

Harry rubbed his face harshly with his hands. “This is bullshit.” He repeated.


	4. Something Dusty, Something Shared

Draco woke in a cold sweat, white hair plastered to his forehead. Swearing, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and onto the cold marble of his bedroom. It had been a nightmare. 

Nightmare, not dream. He didn’t understand the need for distinction, because he hadn’t had a normal dream since he was five. His therapist had assured him that he would begin having normal dreams eventually. He’d been waiting because, after all, patience was a snake’s virtue. 

It was barely six in the morning. Regardless, mother would surely be awake. 

He dressed in muggle athletic wear, grabbed the small duffle bag he stored in the bottom of his wardrobe and alerted his mother that he would return in a few hours. 

The Underground was a delightfully strange place in the morning. Muggles were going to work, mostly, but there were a few students with “back-packs” slung over their shoulders too. Each person was in a varying state of sleep deprivation. Some propped themselves up against walls on the Tube, trying to stay awake or waiting for their coffee to kick in; others blatantly slept. 

He got to the studio a little after seven. An elementary pointe class was already midway through in room one. Next door, a small group of adults seemed to be mastering the very, very basics of ballet. Room three, the smallest studio, was empty. 

He slipped inside the dim room, not bothering to turn on the lights. There were two small skylights in studio three, and since it was March, the sunrise was already well underway and provided a decent amount of light. 

Draco nudged off his sneakers and slipped on his leather split-sole dance shoes. He stretched slowly, curving his neck and arching his back with the careful grace of a swan. 

Then, moving to the barre, he began a languid warmup. When he was younger and had danced primarily in rigid classes, the barre was a stressful encounter. Now, alone in the partial darkness, he took his time with each dégagé or grande battement which had frustrated him so much as a child. 

His limbs were longer now. Ballet felt more natural in this body, and he understood the beauty in dancing slowly-- making each moment an opportunity to become stronger and more connected to oneself. 

Time passed and the post-nightmare stress melted off his shoulders. Mid piqué turn, he heard the door click behind him. His balance snapped. He turned on his heel, meeting the wide eyes of a small blonde girl. 

After a moment, recognition washed over him. “Ms. Lovegood?” 

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy,” a tiny smile curved the corners of Luna’s mouth up, “I didn’t know you danced.” 

“Many don’t.” He paused, watching her. She remained in the doorway with a small, strange smile on her lips. It didn’t seem like she intended on leaving, so he would. Draco turned and began to take off his shoes. 

“Wait! Draco. You don’t have to leave-- stay and dance with me!” 

Draco was glad he was turned away. He pressed his lips together to suppress a laugh, then composed himself and kindly gave her his best apologetic smile. “My mother is expecting me for breakfast,” he explained, which was mostly true. They often ate together, though it wasn’t a scheduled event. 

Luna nodded, her gaze falling to the ground. “Okay, Mr. Malfoy.” She adjusted the dance bag on her shoulder. Clearly, she was disappointed.

Seeing her like this, Draco felt a pang of remorse. Even so, he changed his shoes and slipped past her in the doorway. “Maybe next week, Ms. Lovegood. I’m sure you’re a lovely dancer.” He glanced over his shoulder. Luna had turned, a quiet smile lighting up her face. 

Later, after eating breakfast alone and changing into something more formal, he decided to visit Hogsmeade. He’d read all of the books and scrolls in his study, so a trip to the bookstore was long past due. If that wasn’t reason enough, his potions ingredients desperately needed restocking. Currently, it consisted of a box of boomslang skin and a bottle of bulbadox juice. 

Being in public, even a couple years after his trial, was always an anxiety-riddled experience. People liked to stare at him. It was unlikely that everyone who stared even recognized him, his therapist liked to remind him; they probably found him attractive or interesting to look at. 

He supposed he was an interesting sight. 

Years of ballet had toned him to be strong and willowy and his hair, he’d recently discovered, had a small, natural wave if he didn’t brush it. He knew how to appropriately style himself and used his tall, slender form to his advantage. So yes, he was attractive. 

During times like these, when people stared, he reminded himself that he was (as muggles put it) a fine piece of ass and if they wanted to stare-- they could.

Draco took a deep breath and held his chin high, walking through the crowd with enough false confidence to intimidate. Ideally, no one would talk to him. 

For the most part, he managed to complete his shopping with nothing more than small talk with cashiers. But he should have known that his luck wouldn’t hold out. 

He was walking through Toven’s Tomes, an old bookstore held together by the business of those who fancied antique and dusty literature, when he tripped on something. With his chin confidently in the air, it had been hard to see the ground. 

“Shit.” Said a voice. 

“Fuck, sorry.” Draco looked down, meeting the green eyes of none other than Harry Potter. 

“Potter?” He hissed, apologetic and surprised. 

First ballet? Now books? 

The Savior of the Wizarding World was sitting criss-cross on the ground in front of a bookshelf. His sweater was covered in dust. 

“Oh, no problem. Feel free to step on me,” said Harry with an eye roll.

“Feel free to sit on the ground like a bloody child,” retorted Draco sourly before he could stop himself. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and stepped around Harry to continue searching for his book. 

Harry sneezed. 

Draco snorted, startled and amused by the break in uneasy silence. 

“Did you just snort?” Asked Harry, looking up with that shite-eating grin. 

The blonde shrugged. “What about it?”

“It just seems… I don’t know.” He shook his head and turned his attention back to the bookshelf. “I don’t know, nevermind. What are you looking for?” 

Draco looked at Harry, lips pressed tightly together. Perhaps he’d know where to find it; he seemed to have basic knowledge of just about everything. So, he nonchalantly tossed the answer over his shoulder, “I’m looking for books about medical potion making. Just curious.” 

“Oh,” Harry coughed, “they’re actually here. I was--” he broke off, gesturing to the shelf. 

Draco’s brows furrowed. Why on earth was Harry looking at medical textbooks? “Uh,” he stammered, “do you mind if I, uh…” 

Shaking his head, Harry scooted over a couple feet. “No, go ahead.” 

So, he did, gingerly sitting down so he could see the contents of the bottom shelf. 

He felt Harry staring—which he was, without shame—and looked at him sharply.

“Stop looking over my shoulder.” whispered Draco, “It makes me—“

“—Paranoid?” Finished Harry. He nodded, averting his gaze. “Sorry.”

“Don’t assume to know me, Potter.” Said Draco under his breath. He brushed the dust off a couple spines and searched for the book he was looking for. Most of the books were rather standard. 

The blonde sighed, prepared to give up, when he saw a book he’d never seen before. The only issue was its location: Harry Potter’s lap. 

Draco cleared his throat and met the brunette’s eyes. “Erm, are you—do you plan on buying that book?”

Harry frowned and looked down at the book in his lap. “Well, I was thinking about it. Is it good?”

“I haven’t read it.” 

As much as Draco wanted to be civil and not start an argument in a bookstore, a small part of him wanted to leave the shop with that dusty, red volume held triumphantly above his head. 

“Well, I was going to buy it,” said Harry. “But there’s probably another copy somewhere…” 

 

There wasn’t. After checking with a few shop assistants and finally Toven himself, they concluded that this copy was perhaps the last in existence—or at least in Hogsmeade. 

“Okay well, it’s a book,” states Draco sensibly, “it’s not going to disintegrate once one of us reads it.”

Harry and Draco both look at the red book, now sitting on a table between them. 

“You’re right,” Harry says carefully.

“So, you take it first,” says Draco.

“No, it’s fine. You can read it first.” 

Harry pushes the book across the table to Draco and then shifts his glasses further up his nose. 

For a long, tense moment, the two stare at each other. 

Then, finally, Draco nods curtly. 

They split the cost of the book and go on with their lives. 

Late that night when Draco opens the book, a strange feeling accompanies the task of taking notes from it. Having a shared object—it’s intimate—and he becomes acutely aware that it’s the only object in his entire apartment that isn’t completely, 100% his. 

Perhaps it isn’t a bad thing, even if it is Harry Potter he’s sharing it with.


End file.
